The Forgotten Actresses Collection 1 ("The Forgotten Flapper," "The It Girl and Me," "Bathing Beauty")

Copyright © 2015 by Laini Giles

Sepia Stories Publishing

Cover images (line art and camera) © Shutterstock.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author, including reproductions intended for non-commercial use.

First Edition

For Aunt Hopie, who would have approved.

B1 Prologue

NEW YORK, NEW YORK, today

You know, it’s really no fun haunting people who refuse to be afraid of you. When you say, Boo, they’re supposed to scream, not say, Hi Olive. Just so you know, I’m not one of those chain-rattling, doom-and-gloom ghosts. It’s not my style. Instead, I rearrange the scenery and materialize for the folks who work here. Keeps ‘em on their toes.

I live at 214 West 42nd Street, New York, New York. That’d be the New Amsterdam Theatre for you non-showbiz types. I used to perform here back in 1915. In my day, this was the place to be. Bright lights, hooch, and the girls of the Ziegfeld Follies. The most lavish musical revue of its day, and I was there for it.

See those fixtures up there? Those murals? Fancy, huh? Decades ago, this was the biggest venue in New York. I was just a dumb appleknocker from Charleroi, Pennsylvania. The New Amsterdam was the most glamorous place I’d ever seen. I spent the happiest time of my life here, dancing, singing, and chatting with everyone. What a gay time we all had! Whether it was champagne and roses backstage, dancing ‘til dawn at Bustanoby’s or Murray’s Roman Gardens, dining on oysters Rockefeller at Delmonico’s or even the butter cakes at Childs, it didn’t matter to me. I loved it all.

I went to Hollywood too. But that didn’t turn out quite like I planned. I ended up back here on this ghostly plane, the century barely begun. I guess that was my problem. I was never happy with what I had. I always wanted something else.

In the 1930s, the owners turned this place into a movie palace. But with sound, we silent stars were forgotten when the new stars like Clark Gable and Greta Garbo showed up. It wasn’t fair. We were just as glamorous as they were. I couldn’t help thinking how I should have been up on that screen too. Instead I watched from the wings like I never existed. Goddamnit, I once had the world wrapped around my little finger. What the hell happened?

By the 1960s, life as a ghost at the New Amsterdam had definitely lost its luster. The dark corridors got a little drearier, the once-vivid red, green, and gold patterned carpet was nearly black with fifty years of wear, and the moisture and mildew seeped into every ornamented crevice. For the first time in my life, I wished I’d had a book to read. Any day the bulldozers would show up, and what the hell was I supposed to do when that happened?

In the 1970s, I sat twiddling my thumbs while the whole country went through its selfish phase. This place was a shithole, and it smelled even worse. The roof had leaks no one bothered to fix, and mushrooms were sprouting in the orchestra pit. They were hawking God-knows-what out on the street in Times Square.

My days and nights blurred together after years of boredom. From my perch in the mezzanine, I watched that dishy Chinaman in his kung fu movies. When it wasn’t Bruce Lee double features, I had to sit through crap like Beware the Blob or Jacqueline Bisset in her wet T-shirt.

Disney arrived in 1995. I was intrigued when the suits showed up, pointing and planning. Then the hardhats arrived. They set up scaffolding, and the hammers and paintbrushes started flying. They brought in artists to restore the murals and the sculpted rosettes and sconces. When all the work was finished, I felt a huge lump in my throat. The old girl was beautiful again.

They threw a hell of a party in 1997 for the reopening, and the New Amsterdam was back to live theater—musical versions of Disney favorites. It was Broadway’s newest showplace: refurbished electric, updated plumbing, commercial carpet, fancy paint job, and the murals like they were supposed to be—pictures of goddesses and muses and all that stuff.

The audience was full of conversations about the area and its rebirth. The theater district sprang to life like never before, with families drawn to the shows, the shopping, and the restaurants. Now, theatergoers showed up with shopping bags from places like Aéropostale and Ann Taylor. Much different from the hookers and bums I’d seen the previous decade or two. The actors and actresses and musicians and prop people livened up my life more than anyone had in years! This was the place to be again, like it had been in my day.

The first few performances of a new show were always my favorite times. Even though I’d seen the players rehearsing for weeks, it was almost like being at the Follies again. Only in the audience this time.

Round about the twentieth performance, when I could sing Hakuna Matata or Spoonful of Sugar from memory, I’d climb up to the roof to get away from the music, and I’d reminisce about the old days.

I overheard one of the foremen say there were too many ancient problems up top and they couldn’t bring it in line with modern building codes. So Disney sank all their cash into the ground floor and used the roof garden for air conditioning units. Why, we used to entertain the richest men in the world up there!

I can’t stay on the roof too long or my eyes get misty. I have to go downstairs searching for company, like this poor sap Dennis in the hallway just now. Only a few days into this job, and he still hasn’t met me yet. He’s not like the pros who’ve been at the theater for years and gotten blasé about me.

He’s a looker, ain’t he? Reminds me of Tony Moreno when he was just starting out. Smooth, with fancy white caps on his teeth. But he lisps, and he wears too much gel in his hair. Definitely a faygeleh, as Lil Tashman used to call them.

If there’s new blood, I like to parade down the hallway to see who notices me. I’ve been wearing this same green outfit and feathered headdress for years. When I got to the Great Beyond and told them I wasn’t ready to wrap it up yet, they told me that if I planned on staying I’d have to pick something to wear. This was my favorite costume— velvet bodice, bare shoulders, and yards of flowered tulle for a skirt. Why not make the most of it? I thought. I hadn’t considered how cold I might get in this drafty old theater—I just liked the reactions I got. Even the raccoon collar around my neck didn’t help ward off the chill much.

Watch this. I’ll do a little turn toward Dennis and give him the ole smile and wink. Then I’ll slip through the wall.

His mouth is gaping, and the paintbrushes are clattering on the linoleum. Ha! His hands are shaking, and he’s hotfooting it upstairs. Knocking on the manager’s door, he doesn’t even wait for an answer before stumbling in. That’s usually how it works. Hear him telling the old guy about me? We can watch if you want. Sometimes people can see me, sometimes they can’t. I haven’t quite figured out the trick, but I love eavesdropping the way I never could in life.

The big guy at the desk is Mr. Wright. He’s been at the theater since The Lion King, Disney’s first big success here. I like him. He respects me and my paranormal clout. He’ll let Denny jabber for a bit, then cut him off.

Denny, relax. You’ve been on the job, what, four days? They should have told you when they hired you. She’s very famous.

Tell me what? Who’s famous?

You said golden-brown hair and a green costume, right? You saw Olive, that’s all. She’s our resident phantom.

Phantom? A little overdramatic, don’t you think?

Who is she? Why is she here?

Why am I here? I live here, son.

She was a silent movie actress, but she was a Ziegfeld girl before she went to Hollywood. Died very mysteriously.

She winked at me, Denny says.

Yeah, that’s Olive. Mr. Wright nods. She flirts with all the guys. Come with me for a second.

Ooh, they’re going downstairs. Come on, I love this part. Those pictures on the wall? All spit curls and expressive eyes and bee-stung lips? That’s me Mr. Wright’s pointing at. That’s the costume I wore as Miss January.

This was Ollie. Supposedly, her eyes were violet blue. You know, like Liz Taylor? You might notice that when we get to the theater in the morning, and when we leave at night, we always say hello and goodbye to her. It tends to keep the peace with the old girl, so she doesn’t toss the scenery all over the place.

Old? Hmmph. And toss? I beg your pardon. I kicked a wooden tree over once. Okay, twice. I hate being upstaged.

The only time she gets upset nowadays is if we have old vaudevillians attending tributes. That sort of thing. Doris Eaton Travis visited a few years ago, and Olive lost her mind throwing stuff around. She doesn’t appreciate it when we rearrange the office either—desks and chairs and file cabinets. She likes things the way they are, thank you very much.

What can I say? I don’t like change. And I’m more famous than Doris what’s-her-name ever dreamed of being. I couldn’t see why they were rolling out the red carpet for a wrinkled-up old biddy like her. People love me because I’m twenty-five forever, and because they think I never left. Like Dennis with his eyes glued to my portrait. He’s interested now, huh?

Wright’s going to tell him my whole story. You wanna hear?

B1 Chapter One

This may surprise you, but I didn’t have a theatrical background when I joined the Follies. That Booth fellow who shot Lincoln? They always said he came from a theatrical family. Same with my Jack. But nothing for me, unless you count my brother Jim putting on a scene every time he had to eat string beans. Now that was some entertainment.

Ollie, what’s your favorite thing about New York? people used to ask me.

The sun, I’d say. No hesitation at all. And blue sky. The color it’s supposed to be.

Black as a Hottentot’s ass. That was the color of the sky in my neck of the woods. Like nighttime even during the day. And the air reeked to high Heaven. Like a sickening mixture of coal, sulfur, and skunk cabbage. Imagine the lobby of the New Amsterdam at intermission, and know that the smoke was a hundred times worse. When it rained, you swam through a foul paste. And the steel factories, beehive coke ovens, smelters, and Bessemer processing plants shook the earth for miles in every direction. The only other noise you could hear were the church bells, tolling for everyone who died working in those places.

Charleroi, Pennsylvania, is a little town not far from Pittsburgh by way of the Monongahela River. In my day, it was known for two things: its plate glass company, and the oh-so-respectable Mrs. E.C. Niver, governor-appointed Assistant Censor of Motion Pictures for Pennsylvania. Because God forbid anyone might go to a flicker and actually enjoy it.

There’s another city called Charleroi in Belgium, Mamma told me once. That town had to be much nicer than ours. There wasn’t much to recommend our town (or Pennsylvania on the whole) that I could see. But it was still home.

As a little girl playing on the stoop of our house, I’d cringe when the men trudged home at the end of the day, their boots leaving deep pits in the yellow mud that served as a road. Their faces were covered in soot, and the eyes that peered out had lost all hope. I could sense it even then.

Mamma, why are the men’s faces black?

She sat down on the porch with me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder.

Ollie, she said, those men have the hardest jobs in the world, pulling coal out of the ground to keep us warm in the winter, or baking it to make iron and steel. They deserve your respect.

They all looked like they’d tramped through Hell and come out the other side. In a way, they had.

Why, only two years before I came along, there was a huge battle up the river at Homestead. Mr. Andrew Carnegie owned a factory there. When the workers decided to strike, the factory goons tried to bring in scab labor and Pinkertons to rough them up. The whole town took up arms against them, and lots of people on both sides died. By fall, the bastards at the factory had broken the strike. Take it from me: you’d be hard put to find anyone in the Mon River Valley who’d set foot in one of Mr. Carnegie’s libraries after that.

They say the first man a girl falls in love with is her father. I’m no different. My father, Michael Duffy, was a huge man, built like a stevedore, with legs like pillars and arms like a great grizzly bear. His work boots were the size of the tugs plying the Mon.

Da’s parents came over on a boat from Ulster, so his blood was as Irish as a four-leaf clover, but he’d grown up in Ohio, so he was American through and through. He had a hearty laugh and loved my mother’s homemade sarsaparilla. He was a mason, lifting massive hunks of rock and stone every day for the buildings in Charleroi. I was fascinated by his hands. They were huge, rawboned, and knob-knuckled, usually red from a full day’s work. His work gloves, the most important piece of equipment he owned, were ragged and frayed from so much use. When I was very small, Da moved us to Pittsburgh where the work was better.

It was impossible to be blue about anything when Da was around. He’d scoop Mamma up in a big hug, lifting her off the ground as she giggled and squealed, batting at his hands.

Rena, me darlin’! Tell me all about your day! he’d say, setting her down and planting a loud, boisterous kiss on her in front of all of us.

I’ve made us lamb stew and an apple pie, she’d answer, blushing and looking up at him affectionately as she adjusted her apron.

And you three scamps, he’d say, grinning at us. What mischief were you up to today? The house is still standing, so I’ve high hopes for the evening. He’d let out a hearty laugh and collapse into his favorite chair, his feet up on the hassock. Then one of us would bring his slippers.

My brother Jim was the oldest, and the smart one. Always with his nose in a book. Then came me, then little Spud. His real name was Bill, but nobody called him that. When he was little, he’d eat an entire plate of potatoes if you let him, so Da began calling him Spud. He’d been Spud ever since.

We kids all took after Da, with his red-gold hair and deep blue eyes, but Mamma said I was the most like him in personality.

How’s my little Rose of Tralee? he’d ask as I crawled into his lap. I’d smile up at him and pat his face, then nestle against his side. His smell was comforting—flannel just in from the smoky air and tinged with sweat, Blackjack gum, and the blackberry tobacco he packed into his pipe.

We were poor, but not as poor as some, and Da saw to it we were fed, clothed, and had a roof over our heads. We never wanted for anything. Especially love.

PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA, December 1902

God’s teeth, this bastard is heavy! Da said, stumbling in the door with a tall, lush fir. Its spicy evergreen scent filled the house.

Michael Duffy, you hush with that talk, Mamma said.

It’s a fine specimen, he said, bracing it as he placed it into the stand. Then he stood back to admire it. Took me an hour to chop it and get it back here.

You’re working too hard, Mamma said, wiping her hands on her apron.

Letting out a thunderous sneeze, he pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose. He tucked it back in his pocket and then wiped his forehead on his sleeve. He’d been helping lay the foundation of a new building downtown when he’d caught a cold the week before.

Mike, go lie down, please, Mamma said. I’ll bring you some of this chicken soup I made, and some Salada tea with a little lemon and a dram the way you like it.

I am feeling a little tired, he said. But there’s wood needs chopping.

I’ll get it, Da, Jim said. He looked up from his copy of Captains Courageous and began pulling on his coat and gloves. You go rest.

There’s a good lad, Da said, letting out a deep bark of a cough on his way to bed.

The cough went from bad to worse. Then the cold turned into pneumonia, and they admitted Da to Allegheny General. Mamma sat vigil with him for a week. Mamma’s parents, my Grandma and Grandpa McCormick, looked after us, and they brought us to the hospital that last day, Jim and Spud and me.

I barely recognized my father. He wasn’t the big strapping fellow I knew anymore. His ruddy complexion was a ghostly grayish-blue. And that cough—it was a hacking sort of honk that rattled from deep inside him.

Mamma softly sobbed into her handkerchief as Father Delancey sat near the bed saying prayers.

Almighty God, look on this your servant Michael, lying in great weakness, and comfort him with the promise of life everlasting, given in the resurrection of your son, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Mamma put her arms around us and brought us closer to the bed, where Da could see us. He tried smiling but ended up wincing instead as he coughed. Pushing through the pain, he opened an arm to us, and we scooted closer.

We all stood there shaking and helpless, and he touched each of our faces, gazing deeply into our eyes.

You’re wee gems, all of you, he said, his voice a raspy whisper. Be good for your ma. And make me proud of you," he said. He gave a final wheezing breath, and then he was gone.

From that day on, I hated hospitals—the smells and the sounds of death. I never wanted to feel that fear again.

Family and friends gathered at the house and brought offerings of boxty and colcannon. Mrs. Szabo across the street brought goulash. Mrs. Gianelli next door made noodles and sauce. We would have eaten like royalty for a week if any of us had felt like eating at all. Then life got harder than I ever thought it could.

Mamma did her best, scrubbing floors, taking in wash, and selling baked goods to McBrendan’s Bakery, but it never went far enough with three children to provide for. I was able to watch Spud, and I helped her clean house. We ate a lot of cabbage soup.

The day our landlord told her he was evicting us, I found her crying at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea that had long gone cold.

Mamma, Mamma, what is it? I said.

She tucked me into her arms, her warm tears soaking into my hair as we sat together. She held me there, rocking back and forth, whispering how everything was going to be okay, when she didn’t know herself if it would be.

Mamma moved us in with my grandparents in McKees Rocks so we’d still have a home. I loved Grandma and Grandpa McCormick, but their house was stifling for a girl my age. My grandfather rarely moved from his Morris chair near the fireplace except to feed his chickens in the backyard. There were doilies on every single surface, and the portrait of Jesus on the wall stared at me accusingly. The place reeked of mothballs, and our evening meal was usually some form of potato and a cheap piece of meat from Halsey’s Butcher Shop with all the flavor boiled out many times over. A year later, when she was returning from Halsey’s, Mamma met a brakeman named Harry Van Kirk on Chartiers Avenue.

Harry was a mild-mannered man. Where Da had been outspoken and loud and fun-loving, Harry was quiet and respectful and would never have dreamed of frequenting a saloon with the boys after work. I was happy Mamma had found someone, but Harry and I had nothing in common. To me, he had all the personality of a communion wafer. It took a lot for him to raise another man’s three children, and we were all thankful for that, but I couldn’t wait to get away. On the positive side, he did love my mother, and the house he moved us into on Patterson Street didn’t smell like camphor.

Harry seemed unable to form opinions of his own unless they’d been filtered through the other men he worked with at the Pittsburgh and Lake Erie Railroad Company. And while the P&LE was a huge part of life in the Rocks, I found it hard to believe that two men there knew everything there was to know about life and living it.

Do you know what Mr. Dick Eberhardt told me? he’d say, taking a bite of pot roast. He said that the hospital is getting ready to add a new wing. The mayor told us there would be progress, now didn’t he?

When Dick Eberhardt was out, his second-in-command, Ernie Twitchell, provided the gossip for our dinner table.

Ernie Twitchell said today he read about a couple who left California and drove all the way across the country in a horseless carriage. Took ’em thirty-two days! How about that? Used to take the pioneers months and months to do that. Look at the Donner Party. Guess all they needed was a Packard.

I was only a wisp of a girl, dumb as a can of soup, honestly. Back then, when you were young and poor and female, your options were limited. But I missed Da, and I was tired of Harry’s secondhand opinions, tired of living at home, and tired of my life being decided by everyone else.

It wasn’t that I hated Harry. He was a decent fellow, but he wasn’t my father, was he? I’d barely begun to live, but I could feel myself dying a little more every day I was cooped up in that house. I despised the Rocks—the smoke, the hard winters, the smells of overcooked meat and potatoes, dinge and smoke, poverty and despair. I didn’t care what I had to do to get out, but whatever it was, I’d do it. Everyone always told me I was too pretty to waste my life there, and they were right.

MCKEES ROCKS, PENNSYLVANIA, early September 1910

Whatcha readin’? a voice beside me said.

I held up my copy of Theatre (The Magazine for Playgoers). I was reading an article about Kathlyn Williams and having a chocolate soda at Goldsmith’s Drug Store. At first, Snappy Powell put in a little extra seltzer because I asked him to. Now he just knew I liked them extra fizzy. Plus, he let me read the magazines—not like his boss, Mr. Goldsmith, who always said, We’re not running a library here, Olive. I think Snappy was sweet on me.

Doing okay, Olive? Snappy asked. His red polka-dotted bow tie distracted everyone from his buckteeth. They called him Snappy because he dished out drinks so fast.

Great, Snappy, thanks, I said, stirring to mix the syrup as it settled to the bottom.

Olive? the fellow at my right said. That’s a pretty name.

Thanks, I said, barely looking over. I laid five cents on the counter and gulped the rest down.

See ya later, Snappy, I said and hopped off my stool. Placing the magazine back in the rack just so, I left Goldsmith’s and continued strolling down Ocean Avenue.

Two nights later, my friend Helene Wise and I decided to go see a flicker at the Star Family Movie Theatre. It wasn’t much of a place. Someone had set up a projector inside the fraternal hall. But it was a chance to escape for a little while. Hel and I both worked at Horne’s Department Store in downtown Pittsburgh, and we both lived in the Rocks, so we’d gotten to be good chums.

As we paid our ten-cent admission, I heard a familiar deep voice at my side.

Hello, Olive. I looked up to see the fellow from Goldsmith’s. Hi, Helene, he added.

Hi, Krug, Helene said.

I remained silent but looked back and forth between the two, wondering who would be the first to do the honors. It was Helene.

Do you know each other? she asked a little tentatively.

Not for lack of trying, he said.

Oh. Ollie, this is Krug Thomas. He works for the railroad. Krug, this is my friend Ollie Duffy.

What kind of name is Krug? I said. Sounds like something pirates tote treasure around in. Or a beast in the jungle somewhere.

The corners of his lips curled up in a grin. It was my mother’s maiden name, he said. My real first name is Bernard.

I wrinkled my nose. Yeah, I guess I’d go by Krug too if I were you.

Ollie! Hel said, obviously horrified.

I shrugged. What was I supposed to say?

May I accompany you ladies in? he asked. He hung back for a moment.

Suit yourself, I said. At that, Hel gave my arm a pinch. Ow!

Must you be so disagreeable? she whispered. Krug’s a nice fellow.

What business is it of yours? I whispered back.

You remember me telling you about the guy who won the Coney Island dance contest a few weeks back at the Norwood Pavilion?

Yeah, so?

So, that’s him!

Really?

On second glance, I noticed how lovely and thick his light-brown hair was. And how nice his gray-blue eyes were. The more I looked, the more I saw a little resemblance to my father. He wasn’t as big, true, but he looked…dependable.

We sat through the flicker, Hel on one side of me and Krug on the other. I don’t even remember it. Some Selig one-reeler, maybe. All I remember now was that little bit of chemistry Krug and I felt as we shyly smiled at each other in the darkness. When the lights came up and the tinkling of the pianist had stopped, the three of us headed for home. He said he lived in the Bottoms with his parents. Helene broke from us at Island since she lived on Stewart Alley, but he continued all the way with me.

Miss Duffy, I’d be most pleased if you’d accompany me to the Pavilion this weekend for the West End Lyceum social.

I didn’t even have to think about it. Kicking up my heels with the best dancer in the Rocks? Of course!

The Norwood Pavilion was up on the cliffs overlooking the town. Like an eagle’s nest above the filth and stench, it gave you a gorgeous view of the Ohio River. Dancing up there gave me energy, and I had visions of what living outside stinky old Pennsylvania might be like—dancing somewhere glamorous. Broadway, maybe.

Krug was a great dancer, but when we weren’t dancing, we didn’t have much to talk about. He went on and on about railroad stuff—switching and brake yards—things I didn’t care a whit for. And when he wasn’t talking about that, he loved talking about President Taft.

You know what Taft said the other day? ‘I am president now and I am tired of being kicked around.’ Now that is something I’d love to say someday, he said, taking a sip of his egg cream. We were back at Goldsmith’s after seeing Rose Sydell and her London Belles at the Gayety Theatre in Pittsburgh.

You’re going to run for president?

Why not? In America, anyone can get rich, and anyone can run for president. This is the land of opportunity, Ollie. You can be my first lady.

Okay. You can buy me some gowns and jewels then.

Snappy stood nearby, pouring some strawberry phosphate, and let out a little chuckle. Krug and I looked at each other and smiled.

We went out a few nights a week. Krug would collect me after I got off work at Horne’s in the city, and we’d stay in town and see the military band play on the lawn at the Hotel Schenley, or go to a show if he could afford it. Sometimes we just strolled through the Jenkins Arcade, the giant market at 5th and Liberty, laughing at the season’s new hats or browsing the sewing machines at the Singer store or the Kodaks at the Hambly Camera Shop. We’d imagine the picnic lunches we would make of the fresh loaves, thick juicy hams, and wheels of yellow cheeses, or he might buy me a box of cordials at the Old Virginia Chocolate Shop. If he’d just gotten paid, he might take me to dinner at Monongahela House or the Red Lion Hotel. Krug was attentive—a real gentleman, pulling out my chair and ordering my dinner along with his own.

Finally, in late March, he let me know he was in love with me.

Then marry me, I said. I can’t stay in that house one more minute.

Of course. I want to make you happy.

All right, I said.

April Fools’ Day, 1911, was the day I became Olive Thomas. And don’t think I didn’t feel like a genuine fool afterward. I mean, the first six months were great. Krug and I still went dancing, and Krug’s mother, Stella, helped me with my cooking. Truth be told, she had the patience of a saint when I’d make a cake and forget the eggs, or fix a pie and leave out the sugar.

But then Krug told me he wanted us to settle down.

We can’t go dancing every night, Ollie, he’d say. We’re married now. And we’ll want children soon.

We would? Jesus. I was sixteen, and nowhere near ready for that.

I tried to be good. But Krug knew all he had to do was take me to a show or out dancing for me to get amorous. One of the greatest nights we had as a married couple was when he took me to see Eva Tanguay at the Gayety. For a week after that, he’d come home to find me dancing with the broom and singing That’s Why They Call Me Tabasco.

Every month, Krug expected me to run the house on the seventy-five dollars he gave me, but I’d had to have this dress. Hel and I might sneak off to the flickers while he was at work, or we’d stop at Goldsmith’s for a chocolate soda. Between the dresses and the sodas, pretty soon I didn’t have anything left to pay the bills.

Ollie, how could you be so careless? Krug would say.

I’m sorry, Krug. I meant to pay that bill. But then I saw this dress at Kaufmann’s. Isn’t it pretty?

He sighed and walked away, not even looking at the lime-colored chiffon I was so proud of.

That was beginning to look like it for me—being a good little wife, learning to bake bread and do laundry, and eventually popping out babies once a year until my insides gave up the ghost. But a little voice in the back of my head kept telling me there was more out there. That I was wasting myself here. That I needed to be singing, dancing, or making my name doing something big. Something important. Da came to me in dreams, letting me know it was too early to settle.

What are ye doing, Ollie? he’d say, shaking his finger at me. And the dream would stay with me for days afterward.

One of those dreams woke me at 3:00 a.m., with cold sweat soaking my nightgown, but I still didn’t know what to do. It was the next week that decided me. I’d overcooked some pork chops, and Krug picked at one as he told me about his day.

They put me on a different crew, he said. Met a couple new guys said they know Harry.

Oh yeah?

Yeah. They invited me down to the tavern after work. Dick Eberhardt and Ernie Twitchell.

That was all it took. I saw a future full of the same secondhand stories, the same dumb jokes, and everything I never wanted to know about President Taft. I wrote to Mamma’s sister Elsie, and I got a letter a few weeks later, saying of course I could stay with her in Brooklyn. I filed for divorce before I left Pennsylvania. Then I packed up my little carpetbag, left Krug a note, and booked a ticket on the Pennsy to New York. I know I hurt his feelings, but I had to get out of there. Everyone else went to New York, escaping their Podunk lives. I decided I would too. To do big important things. I had no idea what. Da’s voice guided me through the next few months, until he threw a gauntlet down and dared me to accept the challenge.

B1 Chapter Two

S. KLEIN AND COMPANY DEPARTMENT STORE,

NEW YORK CITY, March 1914

Miss Thomas, I think you’d be an excellent addition to Klein’s, the woman said. Her name was Miss Bishop, and she was assistant supervisor of the men’s section. In light of your experience working in ginghams in Pittsburgh, I believe you’ll do fine. Can you begin tomorrow morning at 8:00 a.m.?

I had scanned the ads for a couple of weeks, and now an opportunity had arrived at last. Klein’s dominated Union Square. Unlike many of the other stores that tried to outdo each other with marble columns, chandeliers, and a tasteful selection of men’s and ladies’ fashions, Klein’s was a discounter. The front of the building was a haphazard collection of signs: S. Klein on the Square—Dresses! Fur coats! Suits! Millinery! Values! Most of my work was folding and refolding the shirts potential customers had set aside for a different size or design. The men flirted, but the close contact and the pinches on my backside were exhausting. From the younger, more attractive set, the attention could be flattering, but most of the old coots I helped were Harry’s age or older.

This job does not pay enough for a black-and-blue fanny, I thought, massaging my most recent bruise from an old lecher in need of sock garters.

Aunt Elsie’s was a dingy little place at Fulton and Hudson Avenue, under the clanking, hissing, elevated railroad, with a stop for the #1455 streetcar nearby and Fong’s Chop Suey Palace a block away. It wasn’t much, but at least I was in New York.

I loved reading the variety section of the Tribune advertising the latest in entertainment—Potash and Perlmutter at George M. Cohan’s Theatre, or Maude Adams in The Legend of Leonora at the Empire. I couldn’t afford to see any of the shows, but I loved imagining the excitement of the stage. I kept hoping something might change—like a stuffy old millionaire buying suspenders falling so madly in love with me that he’d leave me all his gold—but as time passed, I realized the millionaires all shopped at Bonwit Teller or Bloomingdale’s, not Klein’s. I’d only exchanged one prison for another. If it wasn’t living in a tiny house in the Rocks bickering with Krug, it was being chained to a cash register in the Klein’s basement, folding shirts and being fondled by mashers. I couldn’t tell which was worse anymore. How was I supposed to do anything big and important when I came home exhausted every night from escaping wandering, veiny hands? Even if I’d been able to save any money, I still couldn’t afford to go to the theater.

I was standing in the stockroom one day, copping a secret smoke, when Pauline O’Connell joined me. She worked in millinery. Redder hair you’ve never seen in your life.

Careful The Archbishop doesn’t see you, she said, peering around the corner. She sacked Katie Epstein last week for the same thing. We gabbed for a minute, and then she reached for a newspaper that lay on the stock table. Ollie, have you heard about this? She laid the copy of the New York Statesman Examiner down in front of me and watched my reaction.

What is it? Stamping out the cigarette, I kicked it under the table and picked up the page.

"It’s a contest! Mr. Howard Chandler Christy, the artist, is searching for a shopgirl to draw. ‘The Most Beautiful Girl in New York City,’ they’re calling it! The winner can get her picture in the paper, along with a photograph and some money." Pauline was supporting her mother and three little brothers, so anything that offered money appealed to her. Personally, I didn’t give her a chance. Sweet girl, but too big boned, and her nose was the wrong size for her face.

Back in Pittsburgh, I’d strolled by the May Company druggist on my way to and from Horne’s. The window always featured a display of chocolate boxes covered with paintings of dainty models, and I admired them any chance I got—the golden locks, the eyes of blue, and the deep ruby lips. I was every bit as pretty as those girls. This contest could be my proof.

Are you going to enter? I asked her.

She glanced away, her large nose obviously an embarrassment to her. Oh, I couldn’t. I’d never win. Then she turned back. Her eyes narrowed and she sized me up. "But Ollie, you have to enter this contest. I’ll die if you don’t!"

I’ll think about it, I said. Can I take this? At her nod, I took the Examiner and stuffed it in my bag.

On the trolley headed back over the Brooklyn Bridge, I pulled it out and stared at it.

"Are You the Most Beautiful Girl in New York?

Let an expert decide!

Award-winning illustrator Howard Chandler Christy, with sponsorship from the New York Statesman Examiner, will be choosing Gotham’s most perfect specimen from among its shopgirls.

Interested applicants should present themselves at Mr. Christy’s studio, Hotel des Artistes, 1 West 67th Street, on April 1 to win a specially painted portrait, a promotional photograph to appear in this paper, and a generous cash award."

Hell’s bells. April 1st was a weekday, and I couldn’t get out of work. But that whole night and the next day the contest taunted me. Wasn’t this why I came to New York? Wasn’t this what I said I wanted?

At the last minute, I sent a message to Klein’s calling in sick. I dressed in my best skirt and least threadbare shirtwaist blouse, but I couldn’t stop trembling. My fingers shook as I did up the buttons, and I spent extra time pin-curling my hair and applying powder and lip rouge. Then I pinched my cheeks for a rosy glow.

Name? An assistant with hair the color of autumn wheat was taking our names and making a list.

Olive Thomas.

Can you read and write? he asked.

Yes, sir.

Then follow that group upstairs and fill this out. Mr. Christy is viewing you in small bunches. And hold up your number, please. He handed me a page full of questions, a pencil, and a paper where he had written a large 17 in black fountain pen.

In the case of the girls who had little education, Mr. Christy’s assistant completed the information for them. Hell, half the girls barely spoke English, but at the thought of being discovered, it turned out we all spoke the same language—cold, hard cash.

The studio was an airy space, reeking of turpentine, with oak floorboards and huge windows overlooking West 67th Street and the buildings that lined it. Holding our numbers up, we paraded in front of Mr. Christy, who examined our faces and bodies carefully, walking among us and stroking a cheek or running his hand over a girl’s hair. The assistant followed him, and from time to time Mr. Christy spoke to the young man, who made notes on a notepad. This wasn’t the touching I’d experienced from the pigs at the shop. He was an artist studying his subjects, getting to know us better. A professional.

Mr. Christy had an elegant face, with graying brown hair parted in the center. It swept over a high forehead, and his eyebrows resembled otter tails. His voice spoke of the Midwest, someplace like Chicago or Milwaukee.

What’s your name, dear? he asked me.

Olive, sir. I smiled so he could appreciate that my teeth were straight, then shook out my hair to call attention to the color and curl.

Exquisite, he said, whispering to his assistant, who gave a quick nod as he jotted notes on a pad.

I couldn’t help but preen a bit. He remarked on the other girls as he walked along, but he only used words like nice or very pretty. I was exquisite. That had to mean something, right?

Thank you, girls, he declared, concluding his review of our group. The newspaper has your information, and we will be in touch in a few days.

I felt my shoulders slump at being dismissed so quickly, but I stood up straight when we passed another group on their way in. They were passable, pretty, some of them even lovely. But of all the girls, I knew I was one of the best. He said so. I took the streetcar home, exhausted but hopeful.

The next week at Klein’s, I think I folded and refolded the same shirt over and over, forgetting where I had stopped. We’d gotten a new selection of serge whipcord suits, so I distracted myself with hanging and organizing them when I wasn’t dodging questing fingers. After each long day in the basement, covered in new bruises, I was so exhausted that I could only think of a bowl of chicken broth and some potato before heading to bed. Until one night.

I unlocked the door to Aunt Elsie’s to see a patch of white on the floor in front of the mail slot. It was a long envelope addressed to me, with the return address of the newspaper in the top corner. The flap was fastened with fancy red sealing wax. I was all thumbs as I ripped it open. Goosebumps tangoed up and down my arms as I read:

"Dear Miss Thomas:

We are excited to announce that you have won first place in the ‘Most Beautiful Girl in New York’ contest. We will be most pleased to see you at Mr. Christy’s studio at your earliest convenience. Among the prizes you will receive are:

• Your portrait painted by Mr. Christy

• Your photo in our newspaper

• $50 cash

Congratulations!

The New York Statesman Examiner"

They could have heard me squealing in Hoboken.

B1 Chapter Three

HOTEL DES ARTISTES, MANHATTAN, NEW YORK CITY,

late April 1914

That morning, the buildings blended into the pale gray sky, and the sun tried to poke a ray or two over the street. At last it gave up and withdrew into the murk. Plus, the day was as windy as an old man eating prunes. I waded through the puddles to get to the building on West 67th.

Hello, Miss Thomas, the assistant said, taking my coat. Can I offer you a cognac or a cocoa?

Cocoa, please, I said, thinking cognac sounded far too fancy for a girl like me. I didn’t even know what the hell it was.

Miss Thomas, hello and congratulations, Mr. Christy said, entering the room with a flourish. He wore dark trousers and a light blue tunic splotched with red and purple. It’s good to see you. I’m so happy to be able to paint your portrait. Please, have a seat.

I plopped down in the thick upholstered chair on the platform in the center of the room. A paisley fringe blanket was tossed over the back of it.

Lovely, he said. Would you like some more cocoa? You won’t be able to move for a while. Might get chilly in this big loft.

I’m fine, thanks. I grinned and spread the blanket over my lap.

Do you mind some music? I enjoy it while I work, he said, turning and cranking the Victrola that sat in the corner.

I love music! I said as That Mysterious Rag burst forth from the disk that spun beneath the needle. It was hard to keep my body still. My legs twitched, wanting to get up and dance.

He adjusted the angle of my chin, arranging my hair over my shoulders. When he was satisfied the pose was perfect, he returned to his easel, his foot propped on a stool rung, keeping time, his ankle bobbing up and down.

Where are you from? I asked.

From Ohio, originally, he said, aiming his pencil toward the canvas to begin.

So was my father! I said with a smile. He returned it. Humoring me, I’m sure.

What kind of paints do you use? I asked. I couldn’t help it. When I was nervous, I talked. No, that’s a lie. I talked all the time anyway.

Oils. He put his pencil to the canvas again, ready to begin sketching.

Did you go to school to learn how to paint? It seems very difficult, I said.

He glanced over at me, probably wondering if any of the other girls might have been less chatty.

Yes, I attended the National Academy of Design here in New York. It was very educational. Shall we begin?

Oh yes. Sorry. I tried to behave myself.

He did a quick sketch, his arm moving in dramatic arcs. Then he set the pencil down and changed to paint, which he squirted onto his palette. He’d get up from time to time to change the record disk. As he worked, he cocked his head this way and that, and at last he began removing his smock.

That will be it for today, Miss Thomas, he said. I need to let the paint dry for a while. Can you come back on Tuesday?

Sure, I said. We kept this up for a week off and on as he finished the layers. And all that time he wouldn’t let me peek. I wondered if I was difficult to paint, or if he thought something was missing. Maybe he’d made my nose crooked. Or made my eyebrows meet in the middle. I tried not to think about all that, sure I would turn out fine. I willed myself to remain perfectly still and stayed that way for hours each time. When at last he leaned down to the bottom corner, I figured he was adding his signature. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Miss Thomas, you’re quite a good model once you sit and let me work, he said with a chuckle. I don’t think you budged all week. Come see what I’ve done to you.

Gathering my skirt, I rose from the chair and rounded the edge of the easel. I hugged my arms from the chill in my bones. Then I gasped.

I was a candy box girl! My hair flowed in glowing waves, and my eyes shone with a deep blue elegance I knew I could never duplicate with any cosmetic. I looked like someone special. Someone important. The first lady, even!

"I think you mean what you’ve done for me, Mr. Christy, I said, knowing that this portrait would be my first step to making my name in this town. I look so beautiful." My throat closed up, and tears started pooling.

He stood and gave my hand a kiss. No one had ever kissed my hand before. A marmalade-colored glow spread through my midsection, enough to brighten all of New York on such a cloudy day.

No, dear, he said. "You are so beautiful. I merely told the truth on canvas."

You’re very kind, I said.

Kind or not, I want everyone else to realize why you were the most obvious choice for this contest. In my eyes, none of the other girls stood a chance. He smiled warmly, and my heart did a little somersault.

He snapped his fingers, like he was remembering something important.

"Miss Thomas, I have two artist friends I think you should meet. One is Penrhyn Stanlaws. The other is Harrison Fisher. Penrhyn’s here in the same building as me. He draws for the Saturday Evening Post, The American, and Collier’s. Harrison does illustrations for Ladies’ Home Journal and Cosmopolitan. I’m sure both of them would be thrilled to paint you. Would you like to pay either of them a visit?"

Of course! I blurted out.

The more poses, the more portraits, the more exposure. How better to make a name in New York? Maybe there was something big and important in my future after all. If those candy box girls could make their way modeling, maybe I could too.

Mr. Christy reached behind him to a huge breakfront he had filled with art supplies and pulled out some business cards. He wrote down the details for me on a small piece of paper. I took it and placed it in my bag, my heart pounding along with the jaunty tune playing on the Victrola.

Thank you, Mr. Christy, I said. For everything.

It was my pleasure, dear. Perhaps we’ll work together again one of these days. He gave me a gallant bow, and then we said our goodbyes.

Mr. Fisher’s schedule was busy with sittings, so it took some time to book. When I visited him over a month later, he was as happy to meet with me as Mr. Christy had been.

Miss Thomas, how delightful to meet you, he said, gently clasping my hands as he greeted me. Howard tells me you won the ‘Most Beautiful Girl in New York’ contest. Congratulations! You are a stunner. No doubt about that.

Thank you, I said, glancing about me at his apartment. It was a bit like Mr. Christy’s, with the same overwhelming odor of turpentine. The living area was on one side, the studio space on the other. A raised platform covered with decorative pillows and a silky green-patterned blanket sat in the middle. The furniture was elegant but shabby. In a show of self-confidence or advertising chutzpah, he’d pinned several of his covers to the wall near his drawing table. I leaned in to take a look. One was a June 1913 Ladies’ Home Journal with a group of girl graduates, another the January 1913 Cosmopolitan of a couple embracing, and the last was the February 1911 Woman’s Home Companion with a girl in a beige coat and gloves holding a set of binoculars. The guy was good. His technique, like Mr. Christy’s, was soft, delicate, and perfect for capturing pretty girls in pretty poses.

Harrison Fisher was not overly tall, but he seemed very grand to me. Penetrating eyes were his most noticeable feature, and they peered over a bulbous nose. His small upper lip worked its way into a full lower one, and then into a cleft in his chin. He was clean-shaven, which wasn’t unusual, as more and more gentlemen were choosing to go beardless, but what I noticed most was the scent of his shave cream. It was the same type Da had used, a comforting herbal smell that reminded me of patting his cheeks when I was a girl. Mr. Fisher wore a similar paint-stained tunic as Mr. Christy had, this one a muddy gray, with trousers of the same shade.

It’s an exciting opportunity for you, isn’t it? He picked up his cigarette smoldering in the ashtray and took a hurried drag on it, returning it to burn down.

Oh, yes. It’s so thrilling in the city. So much to do and see! I said.

Where are you from originally?

Outside Pittsburgh.

Never been to Pittsburgh, he said. What’s it like?

Smoky. Awful, terrible, miserable.

He chuckled and gestured for me to make myself comfortable against some of the pillows on the dais. When I’d found a position I could hold, he turned me toward him, my chin up and eyes down. I wasn’t sure why, but I expected him to make a pass. He didn’t, so I was pleasantly surprised. He was a consummate gentleman. And every hour, he checked on me.

Miss Thomas, how are you doing?

I’m fine, I’d say, steeling myself against the aches and stiffness as he wielded his pastels at the paper on the easel.

Lovely, he said when he was done. He unclipped the paper and laid it out on a table where I could see it. "I’m doing an upcoming cover for the Saturday Evening Post. You’d be perfect for it. Can you come back next week?"

I nodded enthusiastically. Mr. Fisher suggested I pay a visit to another friend, William Haskell Coffin, who drew for Redbook. I agreed.

So, next week?

How about Wednesday? It’s my day off, I said.

I shall see you on Wednesday, then.

Back at Aunt Elsie’s, we’d received a letter from Mamma, tickled to tears over two blessed events. Two weeks before, Mamma had given Jim and Spud and me a little half sister, whom she and Harry had named Harriett.

Plus, the previous year, my brother Jim had married his high school sweetheart, Margaret, and she had just given birth to a son—a healthy little fellow they’d decided to name James Michael Duffy Junior after Jim. As a proud new sister and an aunt with my extra income source, I prepared to spoil both of them rotten.

A few weeks later, I soaked up the sunshine on my way home from Mr. Stanlaws’ studio, listening to the paperboys in rare dramatic form. They displayed their copies of the Times or the New York World or the Statesman Examiner, their voices more urgent than usual.

Archduke shot in Europe! one yelled. Balkans a powder keg!

Extry extry! another called. Royalty shot in Sarajevo!

In only a few days, the world went crazy. The word war was on everyone’s lips, and rumors flew right and left on when the US would join in.

NEW YORK CITY, May 1915

My neck was cramped like nobody’s business, but Mr. Fisher sketched away with his charcoal, oblivious. At least it wasn’t long before he announced, All right, Ollie. We’re done with the sketch phase. Let’s call it a day.

Thank God. My neck is knotted tight as a Kraut pretzel. I reached my arms toward the ceiling and stretched, feeling muscles and joints popping.

I’d been posing for Mr. Fisher for about a year and often sat for Mr. Stanlaws and another artist, William Haskell Coffin, too. Mr. Fisher crossed the room to my seat and caressed my cheek.

I adore you, you know, he said.

I know.

I worry about you sometimes, Ollie. You’re still so young. You’ve matured a lot the last few months, but you’re still a little naive. And you are an enticing woman. The wolves in this world will want to take advantage of that.

I smiled shyly at him as he continued.

You must be strong and independent. Men can often be lethal, stupid creatures when it comes to getting what we want.

Don’t worry about me, I said, gathering my things. I can take care of myself. It was true. Now that Krug and I were officially divorced, I felt invincible.

I suspect you can, he said with a grin as I stood at the door ready to leave. I placed my hat on and did the pins up.

Ollie…

I turned, and he continued.

Are you interested in the theater, by any chance?

B1 Chapter Four

Who isn’t? I said as casually as I could, but my insides were like a bottle of champagne someone had just shaken and uncorked. Why do you ask?

I thought so, Mr. Fisher said. Mr. Ziegfeld over at the New Amsterdam Theatre is a friend of mine. The new season is beginning soon. I could write you a recommendation if you like.

You scratch my back, I scratch yours, huh? I teased him, barely able to catch my breath.

If I can help you, I will. You know that. He took his pencil and poked me in the nose with it playfully. You, my dear, can knock this town on its inflated backside. One look at you, and Broadway will be reeling.

Mr. Fisher turned to a small writing desk, pulled up a chair, and penned a short letter to Mr. Ziegfeld, recommending his favorite model, Miss Olive Thomas, as a perfect addition to the Follies. Folding it over, he handed it to me.

Good luck, Ollie.

Thank you. I kissed him on the cheek before leaving, then swept out into the street, knowing I had to try the New Amsterdam then and there. I hopped the next train to 42nd Street and had to ask directions. A woman in a velour coat with a lynx collar was happy to oblige.

Oh, you just head that direction, toward Longacre Square . . . Then she stopped herself. Oh, silly me. Sorry. It’s been Times Square for a few years now. I can never quite remember. See that tall building there? The one with the skinny rectangular tower? That’s the Times Building. Head toward it and you’re almost there.

The hustle and bustle was exactly what I had come to New York to see. In some ways it was much like Pittsburgh—cars and wagons and people and chaos. But it was more than that. It was exciting. It was glamorous. I needed to be here, and I could sense it. It was big and important. Exactly what I had been looking for.

Theaters and their posters were everywhere I looked—Margaret Anglin was starring in a light comedy called Beverly’s Balance at the Lyceum, and an all-star cast was featured in Trilby at the Schubert, with Wilton Lackaye as Svengali. There was a line out the door of the Liberty to see a new flicker called The Birth of a Nation. Giant billboards six stories high proclaimed the merits of Michelin Tires and Eads Gout Pills. Horseless carriages chugged and backfired down 42nd Street, dodging a plodding nag and his driver at the reins of the dependable ice wagon.

As I approached the New Amsterdam, I glanced up. The tall narrow building with the fancy front gloated above me, and the excitement pulsed in my ears. A curved arch flanked by columns greeted visitors, and an elaborate arcade below displayed the theater name surrounded by lights. A sign proclaimed that the new Follies was opening in a week.

I pulled the door open and gasped at the lobby,